Yorika
"Then show me."
The words hang between us for a heartbeat before he moves.
Not the desperate rush of our encounter against the wall, but deliberate, careful.
His weight settles over me, solid in a way he hasn't been for days.
Every point of contact between us makes him more real.
My hands on his shoulders, my legs around his waist, my mouth against his. Each touch anchors him to existence.
I taste wine on his tongue, that impossible music-flavor mixing with something uniquely him. Steel and winter and the space between stars. My fingers tangle in his hair, pulling him closer. He groans into my mouth, and the vibration resonates through my chest.
"You're wearing too many clothes," I murmur against his lips.
"So are you."
I push at his shirt. It dissolves into shadow at my touch, reforming somewhere else, leaving his chest bare.
His skin is pale as moonlight, with veins of darkness pulsing beneath the surface.
Not blood vessels but channels of void, beautiful and alien.
I trace one with my finger from his throat to his heart.
He shudders, his form solidifying further.
"That's cheating," I say about the disappearing clothes.
"Efficient," he corrects, then proves it by making my shirt vanish the same way.
The cold air makes me gasp, but his hands are warm. When did they become warm? He touches me like I'm something precious, fingers tracing the marks he left on my skin. They pulse silver at his touch, sending heat straight through me.
"These are beautiful," he says, following a pattern across my ribs.
"They're yours."
"No." He looks up at me, eyes burning gold. "They're ours."
I pull him down for another kiss, harder this time. My teeth catch his lower lip, and he makes a sound that's not quite human. Shadow tendrils manifest around us, not touching yet, but present. Waiting.
"Use them," I tell him.
"Yorika."
"I want all of you. Not just the parts that look human."
The tendrils move instantly. They wrap around my wrists, gentle but firm, pulling my arms above my head. Others trace patterns on my skin, cold and electric. One slides between my breasts, another coils around my thigh. They're everywhere and nowhere, teasing without satisfying.
"Is this what you want?" His voice is darker now, less human.
"More."
He kisses my throat, teeth scraping skin. "Greedy."
"Yes."
My remaining clothes disappear. His too. The full skin contact makes us both gasp. He's larger than any human should be, proportioned for his seven-foot frame. The ridges I remember from our first time are more pronounced now, fascinating and intimidating at once.
"You're staring," he says against my collarbone.
"You're imposing."
"Concerned?"
"Intrigued."
A tendril slides between my legs, finding me wet and ready. I arch at the contact, but it's not enough. Another joins it, stretching me carefully while he watches my face. His eyes never leave mine as the tendrils work, preparing me for his size.
"You're going to be the death of me," I pant.
"Never. But I might remake you."
He replaces the tendrils with his mouth, and I nearly come off the bed. His tongue is longer than a human’s, more flexible. He uses it to devastating effect while shadow tendrils hold my hips steady. I fight against the restraints, not to escape but for the sensation of being held.
"Please," I gasp. "I need."
He knows what I need. The bond tells him. He moves up my body, kissing every mark he left on my skin. When he finally enters me, it's slow, careful, letting me adjust to each ridge. The stretch burns perfectly. My body remembers him, welcomes him, pulls him deeper.
"Say my name," he demands when he's fully seated.
"Nezavek."
"Again."
"Nezavek." I roll my hips, making us both groan. "My Nezavek."
He starts to move, slow and deep. Each ridge catches and drags, sending sparks through me. The tendrils are still everywhere. One wraps around my throat, not choking but present. Another plays with my breasts. More hold my wrists and ankles, keeping me spread for him.
"I can feel what you feel," he says, his voice rough with surprise. "Every sensation doubled."
"Both ways," I gasp, because I feel it too. His pleasure mixing with mine, reflecting and amplifying.
The pace increases. I meet him thrust for thrust, using my legs to pull him deeper. Something builds between us, not just physical but deeper. The bond stretches, expands, reaches for completion.
"Don't stop," I tell him. "Whatever happens, don't stop."
His control fractures. He fucks me harder, the tendrils tightening their hold. Not painful but absolute. I'm surrounded by him, filled by him, claimed by him. And I'm claiming him right back, my nails leaving impossible marks on his shadow-flesh, my teeth finding his shoulder.
"I choose you," I say against his skin. "Completely. Permanently. No escape clause."
The bond snaps into place.
The sensation defies description. Every barrier between us dissolves. I feel his consciousness settle against mine like a second skeleton. His memories, his emotions, his existence becomes accessible but separate. We're two books on the same shelf, pages touching but stories distinct.
The physical pleasure crests at the same moment.
I come hard enough that my back arches completely off the bed, my body clenching around him.
He follows immediately, and I feel the ridges expanding, locking us together like before.
But this time I'm ready for it, welcoming the sensation of being held deep, unable to separate.
The locking feels different than against the wall, less desperate, more deliberate.
A choice rather than a claiming. He fills me with his release, and the marking goes deeper than before.
I feel it rewriting something fundamental, adding his essence to mine at a molecular level.
We stay locked together, both panting, both shaking from the intensity. I deliberately clench around him, remembering how it made the ridges pulse last time.
He groans. "You're learning."
"I'm a quick study."
"Going to use that against me?"
"Every chance I get."
The ridges pulse again, sending aftershocks through me. Last time, the lock released quickly, both of us too angry and desperate to savor it. This time, I relax into it, feeling how the ridges shift and adjust, keeping him perfectly seated inside me.
"It feels different," I say. "The locking. Less urgent."
"Because you're not fighting it," he says against my throat. "Or me."
"Good thing I like danger."
When the ridges finally release, he doesn't pull away. Instead, he rolls us so I'm on top, still connected. The movement makes me gasp. Every nerve ending is hypersensitive, my body still pulsing from the intensity.
"Again?" he asks, reading my intentions easily.
"Different this time," I say. "I want to see you."
"You are seeing me."
"I want to see you come undone. Slowly."
I start to move, just the slightest roll of my hips. He groans, his hands coming to rest on my thighs. Not guiding, just holding. Every small movement resonates between us, doubled and reflected back.
I set a deliberately slow pace. Rising up until he almost slips out, then sinking back down inch by inch. The ridges are soft now, but I feel them starting to swell again with his renewed arousal. His shadows writhe around him, wanting to manifest as tendrils, but he holds them back.
"Let them," I tell him.
"You said you wanted slow."
"I said I wanted to see you lose control. Slowly."
A single tendril escapes his restraint, wrapping around my waist. Then another, tracing my spine. They move languidly, like smoke underwater. One curves around my breast, barely touching. The sensation is completely different from before. Not desperate hunger but careful exploration.
I lean forward, changing the angle, and we both gasp. My hands brace on his chest, feeling his heartbeat through shadow-flesh. It shouldn't exist, that heartbeat, but it does. Racing under my palm.
"Yorika," he says, and my name sounds broken.
"I'm here."
"I can feel, everything you."
"I know. I feel it too."
We move together with agonizing slowness.
Each thrust takes forever, each withdrawal an eternity.
The tendrils multiply gradually. One threading through my hair, another tracing the marks on my skin, making them pulse silver.
But they all move with the same drowsy intensity, like we have infinite time.
His control starts fracturing. I feel it before I see it. His form solidifies further, becoming more real than I've ever seen him. The shadows that comprise him darken from smoke to midnight. His eyes burn brighter, gold becoming white-hot.
"Please," he says, and I've never heard him beg before.
"Not yet."
I maintain the torturous pace even as my thighs burn, even as my body screams for more. This is different from our desperate coupling. This is trust. This is knowing we have time, that neither of us is going anywhere.
His hands tighten on my thighs. The tendrils start moving faster, less controlled.
"Now," I tell him, and increase my pace just slightly.
He shatters. Not comes. Shatters. His form breaks apart into component shadows before slamming back together. The tendrils go wild, wrapping around me completely, holding me against him as he bucks up into me. The ridges lock again, different from before. Not claiming but completing.
I follow him over, my orgasm quieter but deeper. It rolls through me in waves, each one pulling me further into the bond until I can't tell where I end and he begins. We exist in the same space, shadows and flesh intertwined at a fundamental level.
When we finally separate, I collapse beside him, every muscle liquid. My body carries new marks, delicate silver traceries where the tendrils held me, darker brands where his hands gripped too tight. They pulse with their own light, beautiful and alien.
He traces one with a finger that's not quite solid. "I've marked you completely."
"Good." I catch his hand, noting the scratches I've left on his shadow-flesh. They glow faintly with my heat, impossible but undeniable. "I've marked you too."
"The bond allows it," he says, wonder creeping into his voice. "You can affect me the way I affect you."
"Equal claim."
"Equal claim," he agrees.
Dawn comes too soon.
I wake with his arms around me, his body solid and warm against my back. I feel him already awake, his mind busy with plans and contingencies.
"How long?" I ask.
"Two hours."
Two hours until we face the Collector. Two hours until we try to save Melara or die trying.
I turn in his arms, studying his face. He looks different now. More solid, more real. The edges that used to blur are sharp and defined. The bond has stabilized him completely.
"What?" he asks.
"Memorizing you. In case."
"We'll survive."
"You don't know that."
"I know I'm harder to kill when you're with me. And you're impossible to kill even alone."
"Flattery won't change the odds."
"Not flattery. Observation."
We dress in focused silence. I strap on weapons while he forms armor from shadow. We move in sync now, the bond letting us anticipate each other. When I reach for my knife, he's already shifting to give me space. When he needs to manifest something, I move before he asks.
"This is strange," I say.
"The bond?"
"Knowing where you are without looking. Feeling your intentions before you act."
"Useful for battle."
"Useful for many things."
A knock interrupts. Mikaere enters without waiting for permission, his three remaining arms carrying various weapons.
"The portal is nearly ready," he rumbles. His stone eyes study us both, cataloging the changes. "The bond is complete."
"Yes," Nezavek confirms.
"Good. You'll need it." He sets the weapons down. "P?ivi has located the gallery's current position. It's drifting between dimensions, but she can hold it steady for about an hour."
"That's all we'll need," I say. "Either we succeed quickly or we don't succeed at all."
Mikaere nods. "The guardian speaks wisdom."
Guardian. Not bride, not human. Guardian. I feel Nezavek's satisfaction at the title.
We gather in what's left of the great hall. P?ivi floats there, her form more scattered than before. Pages orbit around her, some burning, some frozen, some existing in languages that hurt to read. She looks exhausted, if living information can look tired.
"The portal is ready," she says without preamble. "But I can't guarantee your return route. The gallery's defenses might trap you there."
"Then we don't get trapped," I say.
"Simple."
"The best plans are."
Nezavek checks my weapons one last time, his hands lingering on mine. I feel his fear clearly now. Not of death but of losing me. Of failing Melara the way he failed the others.
"We do this right," I tell him. "No hesitation."
"No mercy," he agrees.
We face the portal. It's a tear in reality, showing glimpses of crystal and ice and preserved horror. Somewhere through there, Melara waits. Still aware. Still suffering.
"Ready?" Nezavek asks.
I take his hand, feeling his shadows twine with my fingers. The bond pulses between us, complete and unbreakable.
"Let's go kill him."
Nezavek squeezes my hand. "The Collector will try to make you hesitate. He'll use Melara against you. Don't listen. Whatever needs to be done, we do it."
"Even if it means."
"Even then. She wouldn't want to exist like that forever."
We step through, into whatever waits beyond.